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.I mean, where would we be as a society without sliced bread? It makes life so easy.No matter how crazy things get, you can always slap two slices of bread together, make a sandwich, and go.Yep.Sliced bread.Best thing ever.119Chapter 10happy as a clamEthan drives and talks, a lot, which gives me some time to pull myself together.I remind myself that I am not shy.Ethan is just a boy (though an incredibly hot one), and I am not afraid of boys.I can do this!“You have any brothers or sisters?” he asks.“Nope.Just me,” I say.“You?”He tells me about his half sister, who lives in Paris, down the street from the Cordon Bleu.After he graduates, he wants to go to school there and learn how to cook.“Yeah, I’ve got half siblings all over, but I pretty much function as an only child.” He revs the engine as we climb a steep hill.“When did you start cooking?” I ask, relieved that I am no longer mute around him.“I was eleven when my dad left and my mom was always working.When I got home from school, she wouldn’t let me go anywhere or do anything.She thought he’d abduct me or something.So I stayed home and watched cooking shows.After a while, I started trying some of the recipes on my own.”I picture him as a kid, all alone in a fancy kitchen, cooking for just himself.Kind of sad.“What about you? When did you become Cake Girl?”I laugh at the way he says “Cake Girl,” all loud and echo-ey like it’s a superhero name.“My mom started teaching me when I was little.” I smile, remembering.“She could make anything out of cake.She got me into it.And my grandmother, too.Then when I was like twelve, I started doing it on my own.”“You love it?”I look out my window; I’ve lost track of where we are.“Yeah, I do.” If I knew him better, I might tell him more.Like how sometimes when I’m decorating cakes, I can almost feel Mom there with me.And how I worry that if I ever stopped, I would lose her forever.But I keep that to myself, for now.He rounds a corner fast.I hold onto the door handle.“What kind of food do you cook?” I ask, trying not to watch as he zooms around blind corners.“Just about anything.No cakes, though.” He winks at me.“But French, Southwestern, Italian.I make a mean clam linguini.” He suddenly shifts the car into a lower gear and 121turns onto a small, one-lane road.“What about you? What do you wanna be when you grow up?”“I guess I’ll run the bakery, eventually.”“No college?”“No, my father will make me go.But I can go to Grand Valley State and still live at home.”Ethan’s head flips toward me.“You serious? I thought your dad was gonna have a show.Aren’t you gonna move to New York or L.A.or something?”“Not me.I like it here,” I say, desperately searching for a change of subject.“Really?” He sneers.“What’s to like? Just a bunch of nosy freaks and pain-in-the-ass tourists.”I pick at the edge of my seat, like a little kid.Then I realize that this is not cheap fake leather, so I stop.“It’s not so bad here.”“No, not if you like hick towns.”Most of the kids I know feel the same way about St.Mary, like it’s the most boring place on the face of the earth.But to me it’s perfect.“Seriously, the only thing that town has going for it is your dad,” Ethan continues.“My dad?” I can’t help but laugh.“Yeah.Your dad.He is an awesome chef.Last week, I had his veal marsala.Oh my God, best I’ve ever eaten.And I’ve eaten everywhere—in Paris, Rome.Your dad is phenomenal.”122“All right, all right.Jeez, why don’t you marry him?” I laugh and roll my eyes.“You know, if he looked like you, I might consider it.”He reaches over and puts his hand on my thigh.I peek down at it, just resting there, on my leg.Not believing this is happening.He moves it off to shift gears, but I can feel its imprint.“You don’t know how good you’ve got it, Cake Girl.And a TV show? Man, that’s crazy.”My fingers twine together and I shrug.“I’m actually pretty happy the way things are.”“Come on.You don’t really think that.”Actually, I do.Or I will, once I talk to Mom and convince Dad to say no to New York City.I twist my hips in the seat to face Ethan.“Can we not talk about this anymore?”He smiles and makes another turn, this time onto a narrow gravel road.At the entrance is a sign that says cree-kwood in fancy letters, and below that, no trespassing, private property.My eyes follow the sign as we pass, and I silently pray that I won’t end up in jail by nightfall.“Where are we?”“This is my dad’s place.Don’t worry, he’s in Milan.” He stops the car and points to the snowy hillside, thick with bare trees.“Look at that
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